When love turns away, now, I don't follow it. I sit and suffer, unprotesting, until I feel the tread of another step.

... of the two kinds of order, the conscious and the unconscious order, only one is real. It's the order in the deep hidden places.

There's no such thing beneath the heavens as conditions favorable to art. Art must crash through or perish.

How much of my true self I camouflage and choke in order to commend myself to him, denying the fullness of me. How often have I paraded sweetness and interest when I felt otherwise; pretended to take careful leave of him on many an occasion when I would rather have walked right out. How I've toned myself down, diluted myself to maintain his approval.

A comforting acquaintance, hope, a contagious thing like spring, inebriating like lager.

What can be heavier than wealth than freedom?

Off fall the wife, the mother, the lover, the teacher, and the violent artist takes over. I am I alone. I belong to no one but myself. I mate with no one but the spirit. I own no land, have no kin, no friend or enemy. I have no road but this one.